Last Christmas I
bought my duck from Waitrose, but a few years before that, I bought a goose.
We went to the butchers first, through the fish
section of the night market. The dirty
smell of raw meat wafted softly over us in refrigerated waves while we stood on
the front steps. We were careful not to fall into the trap door that led into
the basement. I asked if they had geese.
The butcher shouted out of the entrance.
An assistant appeared from the trapdoor with a white goose in his
arms. Mummy, knowing more about goose
shopping than I, pinched and prodded the bird.
I imagined the bird blushing under its feathers when she squeezed its
breasts and thighs. It had cold yellow
feet, which struggled for purchase against the butcher’s chest whilst he held
it for examination. He had it cradled
between his side and his elbow, keeping its wings gently pinned. With his other hand he stroked its tiny head
with rough and blunt fingers; I could see that he chewed his dirty nails. I put out my hand and stroked the goose’s
neck. We arranged to come back for the
bird in two hours and left with the feeling of goose down still tingling on my fingertips.
We
usually had Christmas Eve dinner at a restaurant in the old flower market,
which led off of the main road, but this year we thought that we would have
street meat. Even the dirty pieces of
soggy cardboard and muddy rubbish didn’t make us think any less of each rickety
food stand. While we waited for our
goose to be slaughtered we wandered the alleys and stopped at stalls for snacks. The basic wooden planks of the mussel stand
were rough and splintered with a wad of plastic bags tucked into the
brace. A portable gas stove stood behind
the old man, the bare ring flickered its blue flames under his pot of steaming
mussels. They were stacked like bullets
in the tray. Each one stuffed with a
rice and mussel meat mixture; we cracked apart the shells and heaped it into
our mouths using the lid of the shell as a spoon. The fish was so fresh; we didn’t need the
offered lemon. We walked away still
scooping up the tiny piles of soft rice. We reached eager fingers into the bag
pulling out each parcel and tasting the sea.
We
wandered further down the fish market, as we passed, a careless boot knocked
over a bucket of live shrimp and their frantic, pink little bodies went skating
over the cobbles. The fish mongers splashed
water over the lines of shining bodies to make them sparkle under the bare
bulbs strung between the buildings. Cats
meowed from behind the tables and sneaked as close as they dared to the smell
of salty meat. Nearby one table, a boy was
sat. He was gutting the white, blue and grey little fish, throwing their insides
into the street. The boy also scaled the
fish for the customers before they were sold. He was using the cap of a beer
bottle nailed onto a handle of wood, the curved rough edges perfect for
catching the rounded rim of each transparent scale. They flew up around his hands like sharp
flakes of snow and settled all over his body.
He looked up from his work as he laid the little creature on the ice and
smiled a watery smile at me.
We
drifted into the spice area. The blue
and grey of the fish market was transformed into a vivid colour pallet of ochres
and deep reds. The harsh bulbs of
butcher shops faded into the coloured glass of fairy lights that danced wildly
in the wind above our heads. The soft
interior of every shop held powdered pyramids of spice, strong enough to make
you sneeze. Here the men played dominos
and back-gammon into the night, the board resting on a low stool between them. While
a constant supply of tea flowed in and out on trays. A low buzz of conversation
and music hummed through our skin. The popping
sounds of frying crackled in our ears, making our mouths water.
At
my eye level a vat of oil bigger than I could have put my arms round was filled
with floating skewers of chicken. The
thick pieces were turning to bright yellow in the oil, bubbles frothing round them. This man wore a white hat and apron, dotted
gently with flecks of dull grey grease from his tub. He turned the skewers with a large, porous
spoon, so that his hands weren’t singed by fat that spat upwards from the
bouncing delicacies. While we waited in
the queue to shout our order, I looked around.
The cold night was misting with the breath of the public.
Here long spice tables stored and
displayed every kind of chilli and peppercorn.
I watched as a fat old woman covered from head to toe with floral
patterns pointed to a few different heaps.
The spice man took a miniature shovel from each pyramid, and poured each
measure into a twist of newspaper. The
little packets were placed in a bag and handed to the woman and she pawed
through them carefully before she handed over the note of money to him. We were finally at the front of the line, Mummy
shouted up for two portions. Our
polystyrene boxes of chicken were handed down to us with a paper napkin under
each and we opened them immediately to smell the soft yellow scent of crispy
chicken. My tongue prickled with spices.
We looked for somewhere to sit
down. We could see the passage that led
off to the ex-flower market, where restaurants now flourished. These old buildings with bare mouldings open
to the air and balconies with French blinds folded back against the
windows. The cobbles gave way to flag
stones and a façade of Parisian style darkened the whole road of restaurants. Each one had a waiter outside and as we
walked slowly past, our chicken warming our hands, they shouted politely. Letting on nothing we smiled and shook our
heads as they tried ‘welcome’ in Russian, German, French, Dutch, Spanish and
finally English. One handed me a red carnation and I hid it from mummy in my
pocket. Out of the corner of my eye I
spotted a door with a wide marble stoop.
We stopped and sat in the door way and opened our picnic box of
chicken.
We were between two restaurants
and watched the diners sitting outside while we ripped the strips of meat from
the wooden skewers. A large group of
people were sat around some tables; they were laughing and talking, shouting to
each other. All of a sudden they shifted
and their hands groped under the table and came up with instrument cases. They were mostly string, guitars and lutes
and a tambur. The spontaneous band of
friends struck up a song and those without instruments hammered along to the
beat and sang at the top of their voices.
These were no Christmas carols!
The waiters grinned when they brought round the food and spread it on
the table, but the singers wouldn’t stop.
They grabbed a morsel here and there between beats and drank their beer
in great gulps.
The girls at the table pushed back
their chairs and began to swing their hips.
Their black hair curled loosely down their backs and they snapped their
fingers to the rhythm. They shook their
shoulders and stamped out the time with their feet. They lifted bites of bread and meat from the
plates, and the juice dripped down their fingers; the music didn’t stop. Each man rose from the table slowly, arms
spread wide above their heads, heads bowed, snapping their fingers to a slow
beat. Only the drums kept going, as the
men filtered from the table into the road.
As they went they beckoned to other men who stood by to join them. The waiters from both restaurants joined the
line, old men and teenagers lined up, arms draped across each other’s shoulders
as they began their steps. Mummy and I
clapped along as the men kicked through the escalating beat. The line snaked all over the road,
pedestrians and shoppers stopped to clap and watch, and we had front row
seats. The rhythm sped until the men
couldn’t keep up and they faded back to their tables, flushed rosy by the
air.
The fast music had sped up time. We hurried through the market again back to
the butchers. Picking up the goose, Mummy and I marched back up the hill,
passing it all again. Our normal chatter
had stopped and we rushed to make the midnight church service. When we got to the church we quieted down,
our hearts still thumping. It was so dark.
We whispered in the cold church and rustled our hymn sheets. ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ came out of the
darkness and the flames of the candles lit up the choir’s faces, the mouth of
the soloist rounded to an O of perfect red in the light. The warm body of the goose lay in the dark at
my feet through the whole service.
Every Christmas I think of that night - my last
brightly coloured memory of Istanbul on Christmas Eve.
